Nobody expects the Senseless Inquisition!

When you are four, every thought that floats through your head is Very Important. In fact, your thoughts are so important that, no matter what time it is, day or night, you must share them immediately. With the nearest adult, if possible. Questions are also Very Important, and also of a time-sensitive nature, and should always be preceded by, "Mom? I have to ask you something," or the equally useful but more urgent, "Mom? Mom! MOM!" Perhaps most importantly, questions are not required to make sense.

At least, the above explains the following conversation, held at 5:15 this morning.

Boy Wonder, whispering: Mom? Mom? (whispering loudly) MOM!

Me, startled awake: Bathroom's across the hall, honey.

Boy Wonder: No! I need to ask you something!

Me, sighing resignedly: Okay, shoot.

Boy Wonder: Do crabs have tails?

There's no business like snow business

So, we got some snow this week.

Okay, we got a lot of snow this week.

All right, we got SEVENTEEN DAMN INCHES of snow this week. Eighteen, if you count the extra inch our fair suburb got. Everything closed except Dragon's office, and we have no idea why they stayed open, as the weather made much of their normal day-to-day work impossible. Even my office, which is not known for closing, told everyone to go home at 2:00. (I was already home, as my very own supervisor had told those of us who made it in to get the heck out of there before we ended up stuck in a snowbank somewhere.)

And the wind chill this weekend is supposed to be -35. As in, 35 degrees below zero.

The global is not warming. At least, not here in Wisconsin. When Great Cthulhu emerges from the depths of Lake Michigan (why not?) to begin his journey to the Oval Office, he will no doubt whack his head on an ice floe on his way up, and become just as cranky as most of the people in southeastern Wisconsin. It's not like we're not used to snow here, but this winter has so far featured a touch more than usual. I believe our fair city, which generally averages about 30 to 35 inches of snow per winter, has just hit 60 to 65 inches.

Boy Wonder is very pleased with the snow, and enjoyed "helping" us shovel on Wednesday. Action Hero does not like it much, getting weepy and saying, "Colda. Colda. Wet!" when taken outside. Dragon is half-dead from exhaustion, after shoveling three times on Wednesday and chopping a whole bunch of ice yesterday. And I really, really miss Tucson right now.


Update on the ears: oddly enough, the eardrums are not actually busted. Apparently, my sinuses are so messed up that they a) caused all the ear drainage and b) are somehow responsible for the hearing loss. My doctor drew a little diagram for me, to illustrate what exactly was going on, but I neglected to take it with me when I left the exam room. At any rate, my left ear started working again on Wednesday, but I STILL can't hear out of the right ear. Things are going to seem very loud when this all clears up.

Something's busted

I have lots of things to blog about, including the holidays, cute things Boy Wonder is doing, cute things Action Hero is doing, and cute things Charming Bungalow is doing. However, the latest development is so odd and unexpected that I feel the need to share it first. Reader discretion is advised.

It began almost two weeks ago, when Boy Wonder developed a high fever and spent the next three days flattened by some sort of virus. Sure, we want kids to rest when they're sick, but it's eerie when a usually energetic four-year-old says, "I'm too tired to play. I just want to sit in your lap, please. Can we rest now?" The virus then commenced its infiltration of our entire household, felling the rest of us one by one. Dragon started coughing so hard that he couldn't sleep, and Action Hero and I got our fevers last Sunday. His didn't go away until yesterday morning, and mine visited on and off during the week, along with lots of coughing, sneezing, and general unpleasantness. We bought lots of tissues, juice, and cough syrup. Everyone except me went to the doctor.

I was finally starting to feel a bit better on Friday. Then, midmorning, I suddenly noticed that I couldn't hear very well out of my right ear; it sounded like I was underwater on that side. Two hours later, it was seriously hurting. I mean, seriously. A friend once mentioned that she'd had a run of ear infections during college, and found them quite painful indeed, and man, do I ever concur. I have no idea how Boy Wonder contended with having all those ear infections when he was an infant and toddler. And I have NO IDEA AT ALL how Action Hero has managed to have two stealth ear infections, which weren't revealed until at the doctor's office for some other unrelated reason. Anyway, speaking of doctor's offices, I went to mine, where the following conversation took place.

My doctor: You have a lot of congestion at the back of your throat.

Me: I had even more there before the cough syrup kicked in.

My doctor (looking in my right ear): Yes, that one's infected. Very irritated. We'll get you some antibiotics. (looking in my left ear) That one's clear.

Me: I've had this cold all week, and my ear didn't even hurt until today. Can ear infections come on that suddenly?

My doctor (looking up my nose): Yes, because you don't have a cold, you have a sinus infection. It's very easy for bacteria to travel to the ear, once the sinuses are infected.

Me: Oh hurray. I haven't had an ear infection since I was five, you know.

My doctor: Uh-huh. Once the medication begins working, the pressure and pain should decrease and your hearing will return to normal levels.

So I trotted off to the drugstore, with my ear hurting like holy hell and my sinuses feeling grosser by the second. Upon arriving at home, I dosed myself with a variety of medications and sat down to wait for my ear to quit hurting. It didn't, and the other one started hurting too. Somehow, I managed to fall asleep anyway.

Until two o'clock this morning, when I awoke to the calm, soothing sound of the ocean. However, since I live in Wisconsin and haven't seen an ocean since I was 11, I quickly realized that something was amiss with my ears, which were trying to convince me that I was either on a beach or perhaps riding in the back of an airplane. Yes, really. Apparently fluid whooshing around in your ears makes a whole damn load of noise. I sat there for an hour and a half waiting for the sound effects to go away. They didn't, and the situation developed an unpleasant new dimension: every ten minutes or so, it would sound like someone was softly tapping on the outside of a seashell, and something would start oozing out of my right ear. (Hint: it wasn't the ocean.)

I began to suspect that my eardrum had gone and blown itself up, and wondered if I ought to do anything about that. After some consideration, I decided to take the time-honored course of going back to sleep and dealing with it in the morning. And deal with it I did. I'll be kind and spare you the details of exactly how the right side of my neck, and the hair behind it, looked when I woke up, but it was certainly enough to convince me that my eardrum had indeed ruptured. As an added bonus, my left ear--the one that wasn't supposed to be infected--staged a similar blowout two hours later.

So yeah, I have two ruptured eardrums (hey, at least they stop hurting once they blow), about 50% hearing loss (this will come back eventually, just not till things heal up in there), and an exhaustive supply of ear fluid, which continues to exit stages right and left (presumably this will stop soon, as there can't be THAT much more in there).

Not sure what the lesson is in all of this, but I'll certainly be watching the kids closely for signs of ear infection in the future!

Holiday greetings

Happy holidays from the Friends of Spidey. More later!

So are the days of my life

First, there was Halloween. And lo, my kids were cute! They were so cute, in fact, that I was getting ready to come here and tell the entire Internet about how cute they were. I was even going to provide photographic evidence of their cuteness. But, since we cannot have everything in this life, a virus ate my computer. Ah, viruses: the e-mail forwards that keep on giving. My computer was functioning quite normally all day Saturday (way back in November, this was, the first weekend after Halloween), and suddenly pop-ups starting appearing with amazing frequency, and some scanning revealed that my computer had more viruses than Boy Wonder got in the winter of 2004/2005, when we were at the doctor's office every other damn week. Instead of blathering on about my adorable children, I needed to back up photos of said adorable children (along with any other photos within a twelve-mile radius, my homework, my freelance work, and two years' worth of e-mail) and reinstall EVERYTHING. All hail the holy flash drive, which I borrowed from my dad and have yet to return. At some point during the festivities, rap music came blaring out of my speakers. This (the backup/reinstall, not the rap music) put quite a damper on computer-related festivities for a while.

Then, there was Thanksgiving! I am seriously considering assembling snack platters and cooking turkey more frequently, if such will make Boy Wonder (normally a touch fussy) eat with the gusto that he did on Thanksgiving. I meant to blog about Thanksgiving too, but there was homework to do, and there were things to do around the house, and there is also Action Hero, who every day accomplishes great feats of physical dexterity (see below).



And then, there was...sewage! Charming Bungalow, like many old houses, seems to really enjoy knocking us for a loop every once in a while. (Bats in the attic! Bat in the basement! Birds in the eaves! Mice in the garage!) However, the most recent house-related event, in which foul-smelling water rose through the basement floor drain whenever I did a load of laundry, takes the prize at the country fair (so far, anyway). It also wins the Totally Most Inconvenient Prize, since I do a LOT of laundry. More details are coming soon; for now, things have been cleared up via Roto-Rooter. I celebrated by doing eight loads of laundry today.

And now, relative calm has returned. For the moment, the drains are functioning properly. My semester is almost over (final on Tuesday), so homework will drift softly over the horizon line, ready to reappear in January but blessedly absent for the holidays. My children are still climbing the walls (and the furniture), but are also lots of fun, and the elder of said children is beside himself with holiday excitement most of the time. May we continue living in wildly uninteresting times.

I want candy

Sort of. Only certain kinds of candy, though.

This just in: Boy Wonder has received his first Pez dispenser. His latest October-birthday classmate (there are 10 kids in his class, and FOUR of them have birthdays in October) brought in party favor bags on Tuesday, and they were a Boy Wonder dream: a Spiderman cup, a Halloween pencil, fruit-flavored candy, Tootsie Rolls ("For you, Mommy!") a couple of other Spiderman toys, and a Halloween Pez dispenser. (We thought it was a Black-Suited Spiderman Pez dispenser for a minute, but it's just a black skeleton.)

Boy howdy, does he ever like Pez. Before I knew it, he had scarfed down a whole package of them. I thought he was playing with the dispenser as he chattered away, but then he said, "Those sure were good, Mommy! Can I have another package?" I had been doing the nod-and-smile thing, saying "Uh-huh" every few minutes as he expounded upon topics such as Halloween, Spiderman, who else in his class is going to be Spiderman for Halloween, when trick-or-treating will be, Spiderman, wanting to find his pencil sharpener, and Spiderman, and said, "Uh-huh...WAIT, WHAT? NO YOU CAN'T! Give me that Pez dispenser!" It was shelved until after dinner tonight, when he was permitted to eat four Pez (since he is four years old, he likes his snacks in groups of four). Hey, we'll be trick-or-treating on Sunday. Soon, there will be enough sugar around for ten people.

Of course, I'll get to eat half of it (or my coworkers will get to eat half of it). I don't think I've mentioned this here before, but Boy Wonder is anti-chocolate. I think it's a texture thing; my mother used to keep those little Hershey candy bars in her cookie jar, and two-year-old Boy Wonder was fascinated by all those shiny, pretty wrappers. So she gave him a bit of chocolate, and he put it in his mouth, looked horrified, and said, "Grandma, chocolate is HOT." She tried explaining to him that chocolate GETS hot when it is in our mouths, and that's called melting, but he was having none of it. And since then, he has had none of it.

Not that he's anti-candy, or anti-sweets. His favorite candy is Smarties, and he's quite fond of the astonishing array of fruit-flavored snacks available in grocery stores today, all branded with favorite cartoon characters guaranteed to make your child take fifteen minutes to decide if he wants to bring Ninja Turtled, Spiderman, Scooby-Doo, Backyardigans, Dora the Explorer, SpongeBob, Care Bears, or Sesame Street snacks to daycare for his birthday treat. (One box of Ninja Turtles and one box of Scooby-Doo, in case you're interested.) Basically, if it's fruit-flavored and can be chewed, he likes it. (This does not apply to lollipops; he also had his first lollipop when he was around two, licked it once, and then stuck it to the side of his neck.) He loves vanilla ice cream, likes Rice Krispie treats (bleargh), and he likes cheesecake (Dragon is particularly proud of this last preference). He also likes cake frosting (this works OK; he eats the frosting, I eat the cake).

Action Hero, so far, has no such preferences. Sure, he likes vanilla ice cream, frosting, and Smarties; he also likes whatever else is not nailed down. This will likely be challenging on Halloween; we may have to institute a rationing system.

Thy rod and thy staph, they comfort me

Wait, hang on a second. There is not, in fact, a rod involved in this story. I wish I could say the same about the staph. Which, actually, is quite the opposite of comforting. This post title really has nothing to do with the post topic. However, I couldn't immediately think of another well-known phrase in which "staph" could be inserted so readily.

Sign at the daycare on Monday: "We have had one case of Staph Infection in Your Child's Classroom. Please watch for rashes or sores, and see your pediatrician if you have any questions." Unfortunately, Action Hero's classroom is prime territory for such a thing; the toddlers are both drooly and mobile.

Sign at the daycare on Tuesday: "We have had two cases of Staph Infection in Your Child's Classroom. Please watch for rashes or sores, and see your pediatrician if you have any questions."

On Wednesday afternoon, upon removing Action Hero from his carseat, I noticed that the corners of his mouth seemed irritated, and hoped against all hope that it was just because of the extra drool sparkling against them (he's cutting his eighth tooth right now). However, by bedtime, they were looking downright sore-ish. I spent some time cross-referencing "staph" and "mouth sores" with Dr. Google, concluding that if they were indeed sores, they were most likely impetigo, a bacterial skin infection which would need a course of antibiotic ointment.

And indeed, there were definite sores this morning, so we paid a visit to the real live doctor, who diagnosed impetigo and provided (free!) samples of the needed ointment, which should put things right by the weekend. Technically, it probably is a staph infection; impetigo can be caused by either staph bacteria or strep bacteria, and considering the signs at the daycare, my money's on staph. Meanwhile, I have talked with Boy Wonder about the importance of not sharing drinking glasses or treats with Action Hero, and made a note to stop at the drugstore for some bleach.

I can't think of anything further to say, except a resounding, "Yuck."

Casual where?

Over the past couple of years, I have met various parties who tell me something surprising about their wardrobes. With perfectly straight faces and an earnest attitude, they tell me that they do not own any jeans. Or sweatpants. Or yoga pants. On weekends, they wear khakis, or cords, or cotton slacks...anything but blue jeans. I would imagine that the khakis and cords are accompanied by button-down shirts...perhaps even neatly ironed ones.

I do not understand these people. Business wear is fine for the business world, but at home, I like to be as comfortable as possible, and for me, that means jeans, T-shirts, and sweats. I like to be so comfortable, in fact, that, "Uh. Are you really going to wear that to the grocery store?" is a frequent weekend phrase around here.

However, these people do have one advantage, which is as follows. When a neighbor unexpectedly stops by to drop off some freshly baked cookies one evening, she will not find them cooking dinner in flannel pajama pants and a gray T-shirt that was purchased in 2002.

News in (very) brief

Back soon.

Oh, you didn't notice I was gone? Whew, then.

But, in case you care, suffice it to say that I don't recommend taking on a freelance article two weeks before going back to school. At all.

Perhaps I'm insane. But, you know, money. Is nice. As is maintaining contact with sources of freelance work.

I appear to have left my complete sentences in my homework.

Going to bed.

"G" is for...

Boy Wonder is almost done with his first official week of kindergarten; he had two half-days last week, and a full schedule this week. He really seems to be enjoying it; his teacher is quite nice, the after-school care room is also nice, and he even has a new little friend already. (More on that later.) Plus, he went to his first all-school liturgy this week. I was expecting to hear all about God, and saying prayers, and how church is still a singing place, after that. Instead, I've been hearing about...gingerbread.

Apparently, his class learned the story of the Gingerbread Man this week, and Boy Wonder has told it to me about six different times. It changes each time; so far, my favorite version is, "And then he jumped out of the pan! And the little old lady called her husband, and some old farmer. And then a woodcutter...no, a fox...wait. Run run run as fast as you can!" His first official gym class was today, and he was under the impression that his class was going to the gymnasium to look for the gingerbread man. They must be talking about baking gingerbread men, too, because he keeps asking when we can make gingerbread cookies. With frosting. In fact, can we make a whole gingerbread cake? For dinner? Tonight?

Actually, having a whole gingerbread cake for dinner sounds rather appealing; I like gingerbread cookies, but baking them from scratch is kind of a project so I don't do it that often. However, we're about to have a long weekend, so a baking project sounds nice. Maybe we'll find the Gingerbread Man in our kitchen...

Sticks, stones, and eye-rolling groans

Today's insult, courtesy of Boy Wonder:

"You're a...a...a...MEAN UNDERWEAR! I DON'T WANT TO LIVE HERE ANYMORE!"

(I think that was right after I told him, for about the fiftieth time, that he could wait until after the kitchen table was cleared off to play with his paper and glue. Or after I told him to stop sliding off the arm of the couch, or perhaps after I told him that really, not being able to find the safety scissors did not warrant a full-blown floor-flinging tantrum and ten minutes of wailing.)

Overheard at the grocery store's deli counter:

"I am just so sick of cutting the cheese."

To their credit, the other employees did not break out into mad giggle fits or say, "Haha! Well, I'm sick of you cutting the cheese too!" Instead, they commiserated morosely with, "Well, I'm sick of this JOB." I suppose that if you work full-time at the deli counter, any jokes about cutting the cheese get old real fast.

Religious education

Boy Wonder on his day:

"Today I meet God! And learned about NameofFatherSonHolySpiritAmen." (accompanied by little hand-waving motions, mostly correct) "And Papa is up in heaven with Jesus."

Well, that just about covers it, don't you think? Especially that first bit. Two half-days of Catholic kindergarten, and he's already met God.

Passages

As many people do, I have anxiety dreams every once in a while. Usually, they focus on either school or work. In the work ones, which usually occur during my first few weeks at a new job, I'm either standing in a conference room saying absolutely ridiculous things, or performing one repetitive task (past work dreams have consisted of shelving in an endless warehouse of books, swiping items across a scanner, typing countless address labels, or copying and pasting data into an Excel spreadsheet). In the school ones, I'm back in high school, and my math homework, which always seems to consist of several hundred incomprehensible algebra problems, isn't done. Or it's the first day of a new semester, and I have no schedule, no textbooks, and no backpack...and I can't remember my locker combination. Or I'm just running late, very late, and getting to school at midnight. And, many moons ago, during a particularly stressful week at Former Employer, I got a a double whammy, dreaming that I was back at my high school...and so were my coworkers.

A new era of anxiety dreams has dawned, though. Last night, I kept waking up in a cold sweat, sitting bolt upright, and checking the alarm clock; this happened at least three times that I can remember. What was I dreaming about?

Well, you know you're a grownup when you stop dreaming about being late for school, and start dreaming about making your kid late for school. Today was Boy Wonder's first official day of school, and since it's been thunderstorming a whole damn lot here and we had a power outage that knocked out the alarm clocks* night before last, I was somewhat concerned (more than somewhat, judging by what my subconscious was doing) about oversleeping and making Boy Wonder get his very first tardy. I don't know what he dreamed about; perhaps nothing, as he fell into an utterly exhausted sleep after melting down completely before bedtime. To hell with the subconscious; when you're four, everything comes whooshing right out your conscious. (After his third bout of howling hysteria, we sat and talked about how school will be fun and exciting, but it's TOTALLY OKAY to be a little scared about going new places and making new friends.)

As it was, though, we got up early and arrived at school right on time, and I got to stand on the playground (in a light drizzle, because it's still raining a whole damn lot here) watching the classes line up and enter the building. I even got to hold Boy Wonder's hand as he followed his new classmates down the hall, and wave at him as he placed his backpack on the table and joined his class for morning circle time.

*Hey, the kids wake up at 5:51. Who needs an alarm clock anyway?

Let my spam filter entertain you

(Because my brain is melting.)

Today I received six separate spam e-mails with the header "Stop going to bars to meet people." Spammers do not know me very well (thank you, Queen of Stating the Obvious), as I don't even go to bars to drink, much less to meet people.

Other spam topics, both recurring and standalone, from today's e-mail check:

PHONES WITH RINGS ARE HOT

I thought phones with rings were...standard issue. I have never had a phone without a ring.

DO YOU NEED TO PULL MONEY FROM YOUR HOME

I need to pull money from somewhere. I suppose my home is the least offensive option.

GET YOUR CRIMINAL JUSTICE DEGREE WHILE YOU TAKE CARE OF THE KIDS

Are these two tasks related somehow?

THE ABSOLUTE HOTTEST TOY OF THE YEAR

Judging from the e-mail's text, the hottest toy of the year is a remote-control toy helicopter, perfectly safe for indoor flying. Hey, if the bat ever comes back, we'll have a trained air force all ready for it.

WHAT DOES YOUR CREDIT REPORT SAY

Plenty. But nothing I want to hear right now.

CURIOUS ABOUT WHAT YOUR CREDIT REPORT SAYS

Wait, I just said...no. No, I'm not.

WANT TO GET TO KNOW SOMEONE FIRST

Better than going to the bar, I suppose.

Recent hits

School Supplies

Boy Wonder will be starting school--real school; heaven help us all, where did the time go?--next week, and in preparation, his batch of school supplies has been boxed up neatly, awaiting transport to his classroom during next week's open house. Action Hero really likes these boxes, and occasionally will remove the lid, examine the box's contents, and rearrange things a bit. Then he'll replace the lid and move along. At least I thought he was moving along.

My parents were visiting this weekend, and Mom noticed the boxes. "Oh, are those his school supplies? What kind of stuff does he need?" she said. I opened the boxes, and said, "Oh, just standard stuff. Crayons, markers, glue sticks..."

"What will he be using the CDs for?"

"Nothing...I mean, they weren't on the list...wait, what? There are CDs in there?"

"Uh-huh. Oh look, there's a sock too! And a little toy dog!"

Needless to say, socks and little toy dogs were not on the supply list, nor were CDs; apparently Action Hero felt the need to pack a few extra things. He has good taste, however, as one of the CDs was a Hawkins-compiled mix.

Bathroom talk

Many years ago, when I was an eighth grader babysitting for the neighbor kid, his mom said to me, "I'm just at a loss! He and his friend use bathroom words all the time! They change the lyrics to songs and think it's the funniest thing ever! Last week one of them sang, 'Santa Claus is coming to...FART!' and they laughed for a good twenty minutes about that! What should I do?" At the time, my younger cousins were making similar jokes, and I was like, "Uh. Well, I think all boys do that. I'm sure he'll stop sometime."

And it is now time to tell myself, "Uh, well. All boys do that. I'm sure he'll stop eventually." The bathroom humor has landed, and lo, it is gross. For once, I'll spare you the details. The daycare teacher has confirmed that everyone is now doing this, not just Boy Wonder. Must be a fun classroom these days.

Two out of three ain't bad

Earlier this summer, during my first conversation with the principal of Boy Wonder's school, she said, "And how old is Boy Wonder?" I said, "He's four. Which he'll tell you himself, within five seconds of meeting you. He will then tell you that he has Shrek shoes. He might also possibly tell you that he has a baby brother called Action Hero."

Later that day, we went to go tour the school and meet the principal. She said, "Hi, Boy Wonder! How are you today?" He said, "HI I'M BOY WONDER I'M FOUR YEARS OLD! LOOK THERE IS SHREK ON MY SHOES!" (pause) "Where is your bathroom? I need to go potty."

Well, I was close.

Batman returns

So far, no more sightings of the flying mammal kind have occured, but that doesn't mean that I don't jump three feet whenever a door squeaks...and, as Charming Bungalow was built in 1924, that's a frequent occurence. Batman did return, and I hope this is the end of the bat situation, because I'm running out of bad bat-related puns to use in blog post titles and also because I DON'T WANT WILDLIFE IN MY HOUSE ANYMORE. Batman said that he could not find any, um, signs that bats had been visiting recently, and usually those are quite evident.

As a special reminder, however, dinner tonight featured soft flour tortillas. Boy Wonder was eating his with great concentration; he then unfolded it to reveal that he had nibbled his tortilla into the shape of a bat.

Yeah, I think he's ready for kindergarten.

A new classic

Quoth Boy Wonder, trying to entertain Action Hero, during today's drive home:

"Eeny meeny miney mo. Baby in the seat! Catch a baby by the toe!
Baby has a toe! And shoes!
Let him holler! Let him holler! Give him a cracker!
Baby Action Hero! ONE YEARS OLD! Eeny meeny miney mo!"

When bat things happen to good people

Alternate titles for this post include "Getting the Batman to Cometh Back," "The Curious Incident of the Bat in the Night-time," and "Mother Nature, What Did I Ever Do to You?"

Previously on About Some Boys: Anithe relates an absorbing tale about how bat exclusions are done, why her house needs one, and why the previous homeowners didn't know about the bats. Join our intrepid heroine now as she shares an even closer encounter of the bat kind.

So, it's Saturday night, around 10:00. The kids are asleep, Dragon is off having fun in California, and I am relaxing on the couch and watching an episode of Medium. (Good one, too.) I am briefly distracted--was that something I just saw out of the corner of my eye?--but decide that I am crazy and turn my attention back to the television.

Unfortunately (at least this time), I am not crazy, as is soon evidenced by a flying creature zooming across the room. I briefly wonder if it is a bird, having recently had the family of birds living in one of our eaves called to my attention by a neighbor, but after a couple of seconds realize that it is not squawking, not issuing forth any white splats, and not feathered. In short, it is a bat. You know, the type of creature that was supposed to be GONE from the house after the bat exclusion? Yeah, one of those.

After letting out a few girlish shrieks (which is OK, as I am a girl), I get up and take a few minutes to observe it, having researched via Google what to do in this very situation. The bat whizzes around the room at a furious rate of speed, circling the ceiling frantically, and it becomes apparent that the bat does not want to be anywhere near a human--its radar is in fine working order, and it neatly avoids me every time it completes a lap. This reassures me slightly. I grab a T-shirt, thinking perhaps to trap it under a T-shirt and escort it outside, but bats fly awfully fast and have excellent radar, and it dodges the T-shirt expertly. Then I try holding open the front door, thinking perhaps it will fly out, but even passing by a human on the way outside is too much for it to contemplate...and it flies into the kitchen. I chase it in there, still holding the shirt, close the door to the upstairs and thus the sleeping children, and lose sight of it. Oh, dear.

Thinking "Oh no! It's gone in the basement and I'll never find it down there," I flip on the light in the back hall. Nope; having had enough of Crazy T-shirt Waving Lady, it's decided to hit the deck and hide by the recyclables. I drop the T-shirt on it, grab a bowl, and remove the T-shirt as I place the bowl over the bat, which is sort of cute up close. (But I still don't want to share a bedroom or living room with it.) Then I put the T-shirt over the bowl and call the local bat rescue lady, who a couple of months ago said she'd be happy to come pick up any bats I might encounter, but she does not answer. So I decide to leave the bat contained until morning, see what advice the Humane Society has, and sleep at my parents' house until then. The children wake up slightly when we get there; Boy Wonder falls asleep again readily, but Action Hero wants to stay up playing peek-a-boo with Mickey Mouse and a blanket. Yawn.

In the morning, I call the Humane Society ("I trapped a bat in my home last night. As far as I know, it is still under a bowl which is underneath a T-shirt. May I now retrieve it and bring it to you?"), and they say, "Sure, bring it in; we'll take it from there." (They also say, "You're so logical about this! Most people call up in a panic, asking if we can send someone out to pick up the bat--which, being a nonprofit organization, we can't--because they'll NEVER EVER GO IN THAT ROOM AGAIN. Thanks, it's nice talking to you.")

But alas, when I (along with my dad, for moral support) go to retrieve the bat, it has escaped. Mother Nature is far wiser than I am, it would seem. I try to be rational about the whole thing, and decide that if it can get out from under a T-shirt-covered container, it can certainly find its own way outdoors. But I do spend a few minutes complaining ("Why do I have to have bats? And birds? Why can't I just have the occasional centipede? Sure, they're hideous, but at least they don't whiz around the living room at 40+ mph!"). And I do call Batman back, saying, "I hate to tell you this, but there was a bat in my living room last night!" and he will stop by this week to inspect and, hopefully, re-exclude.

Despite my thinking that I will never be able to sleep again, the kids and I pass an uneventful night back at home. The bat rescue lady, who was out of town, calls back just before bedtime, and we chat briefly about my encounter. She also feels that the bat could probably find its own way outside, and suggests that the bat was probably a baby bat just learning to fly. I had been thinking that too. From what I've read, adult bats are very good navigators; once they've been roosting somewhere for a while, they know which crevices lead outdoors and which crevices lead to rooms that contain shrieking humans brandishing T-shirts, and make their choices accordingly. Baby bats, on the other hand, are lousy navigators and will crawl through random openings, making them somewhat likelier to end up freaking out in my living room.

BatWatch 2007 remains in effect, however, and the return of Batman is eagerly anticipated. And, as mothers often do, Mother Nature has the last word. This morning, I noticed a dark spot on the living room carpeting. As I got closer, I thought it was dryer lint. And after I turned on the light, I realized that it was...a centipede.

Mother Nature has a fine sense of humor.

Welcome to the Hotel (in) California.

I'm hoping that the above is a phrase that Dragon will be hearing sometime tonight, before too much more time passes; he's off to California to visit a friend, and called from the airport earlier this evening to say that his flight was delayed. I hope it's not delayed too long; he enjoys flying about as much as I enjoy finding a bat in the basement, so sitting in an airport is rather stress-inducing for him.

Speaking of things that induce stress...well, four-year-olds are crazy. At least mine is. Lately he's been having more mood swings and "unpredictable" behavior than Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan combined. One minute he's cheerfully waving Mickey Mouse in front of Action Hero, singing "Mickey Mickey you're so fine! You're so fine Mickey Mickey! Here, Action Hero, let's play Mickey! And cars!" And then he is flinging himself on the floor, howling about how he does not want to go to bed, ever again. Actually, he never wants to go anywhere lately. He's very much in a "the grass is greener" phase; he'll ask where we are going, I'll tell him, and without fail, the response is, "I don't WANT to go there! I want to go SOMEWHERE ELSE!" Even if we're on the way to Grandma's house, which, as the place where root beer, apple juice, and fruit-flavored snacks can be had simply for the asking, generally rates as a favorite.

Example, from today's drive home:

"Blah blah blah blah need to get home so we can give Daddy hugs and kisses before he rides the airplane to California!"

"I don't WANT to go home!"

"Well, where do you want to go?"

"The doughnut store!"

"Oh, haha! We don't have doughnuts for dinner!"

"NOOOOOOOOOWAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAHHHHHHHHH." (cue noisy tears) "I don't WANNA go home to home or anyfing I WANNA GO TO THE DOUGHNUT STORE AND GET DONUTS FOR BREAK....BREAK....BREAFIST!" (more noisy tears)

"Calm down, hon. I think Grandma will probably have some doughnuts at her house tomorrow."

"NO NO NO I DON'T EVER WANT TO GO TO GRANDMA'S HOUSE AGAIN NEVER! I ONLY WANT TO GO TO THE DOUGHNUT STORE!"

I am usually at a loss about what to do when he designates a particular event, conversation, or observation as Something to Freak Out About. Obviously, if we're in the car, there's not a lot I can do (other than keep my eyes on the road even as my car begins to sound like an entire three-ring circus is taking place inside it); I just wait for the tantrum to pass, and he'll either fall asleep mid-sentence or fall silent for a few minutes and then continue whatever surreal monologue preceded the tantrum. At home, it's more difficult, particularly since he frequently stages screamfests at bedtime, when he's so tired he can't see straight yet refusing to admit it. (Side note: I don't just have one child who does this. After 9PM, Action Hero also tips over, giggles, stands up and waves cheerily, and then trips again. But he's not tired, of course...) It's hard to avoid getting frustrated at these times; as an adult, I know that he's utterly exhausted, and an exhausted kid flipping out over what color his toothpaste is is rather run-of-the-mill. However, as an adult, I think, "He's TIRED. Why can't he just admit that, lie down, and go to sleep already?" And the four-year-old mind just doens't work that way; it just tries to come up with more ways to keep Mommy in the room, and throwing a ferocious tantrum does the trick.

Working on that. Will keep you posted. Meantime, if you happen to live near me, buy earplugs. Boy Wonder can scream loudly, and my New Year's resolution about not yelling at him so much is going horribly.

My decade with Harry

Last week's headlines included alarmist gems such as "What Will Bookstores Do After Harry Potter?" and "What Will People Read Now?" (I can't find any of these actual articles now, but I do recall reading several articles to that effect last Thursday and Friday.) Gosh, what WILL we ever do after Harry Potter, do you think? I plan to keep reading, myself. That's how I got into this series in the first place. My affair with various fictional worlds is not going to end just because one series is. As for the bookstores, they might not be able to have midnight release parties for a while (however, having formerly been on the front lines of bookselling, I think that is probably just fine with them), but they were selling books long before 1997. I think they'll make it too.

Still, I'll miss this series. It's been enjoyable to read...and the decade that it has spanned has been a big one for me, as well. Please enjoy the following chronology of two journeys: mine and Harry's.

Book 1, 1997: Harry Potter finds out that he is a wizard, begins his first year of school at Hogwarts, and has his first run-in with Lord Voldemort. I pay no attention, having not discovered the series yet.

Book 2, 1998: Harry begins his second year of school at Hogwarts, and starts hearing voices. Again, I pay no attention, having decided, "EVERYONE is reading this series; why should I join the herd?"

Book 3, 1999: The general public prepares to read the chronicles of Harry's third year at Hogwarts, in which he discovers that he has a godfather; I, being a bookstore employee at the time, open the mail one day and say, "Hey! Here's an advance galley of that third Harry Potter book. Anyone want it?" And my supervisor says, "You should take it. I can't believe you haven't read these yet; they're right up your alley. Read the first one, and if you still want someone else to take it after you're done, let me know." I survey a few coworkers, who say, "Oh, shut up and READ IT already. You'll like it." And I not only read the first one, I stay up all night to finish it. And the next day, I do the same thing with the second one. And I take the advance copy, and my supervisor smiles. (Thanks, Julie.) Shortly thereafter, the general public reads the third book.

Book 4, 2000: Harry begins his fourth year at Hogwarts, going up against dragons, merfolk, and giant spiders in the Triwizard Tournament. Ms. Rowling promises to kill off a major character. I begin my first real non-retail job, going up against deadlines, printers, and art directors (not really. we got along fine. at least I think we did. Hawkins?) in the publishing world. As I am no longer working in a bookstore, I miss some of the hype surrounding the release, skip the midnight party, reserve a copy for Saturday morning pickup, and join most other readers in saying, "Cedric who?"

Book 5, 2003: Harry begins his fifth year at Hogwarts. I begin my first year as a parent. Although I am undoubtedly up at midnight, Boy Wonder being just two months old, I skip the party, and again pick up my book when the bookstore opens on Saturday morning. Boy Wonder, being a fairly mellow baby and perhaps sensing the day's momentous nature, takes a lot of naps, and I am finished by dusk. Boy Wonder, as seen below, is not impressed.




Book 6, 2005: Harry begins his sixth year at Hogwarts. Due to the vagaries of business trips, I am in Chicago on the release date. Before the trip, I'd joked to one of my business trip compatriots, not a Harry Potter fan but a good friend, that she would need to drive myself and our other compatriot, a good friend AND a Harry Potter fan, to a bookstore somewhere. I considered this a joke, as I did not actually intend to ask her to do this, but around 10PM, she said, "So, should we find a bookstore, or what?" We are stunned, yet grateful, and select a bookstore from the concierge-provided list. Five hours later, after some fun experiences (a Jane Austen quiz book!) and not-so-fun experiences (there are some awfully cranky people in Chicago bookstores at midnight), we leave with two copies of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. I stay up another few hours reading it (I do not finish it, and am very tired at the trade show), and finish it on the way back home, my friend being kind enough to tolerate my ignoring her as she drives. If you're out there, guys, thanks again. I'd do it again anytime, although this time I'd volunteer to drive.

Book 7, last Friday/Saturday: Harry comes of age as a wizard (17), and prepares for his final battle with Lord Voldemort. Me, I'm also in a milestone year (30); although there are no Dark Lords in my world at the moment, I do fight a number of battles daily, including I Don't Want to Wear That Shirt, I Don't Want to Go to School, No Candy for Breakfast, and Stop Hitting Your Brother with Toy Cars. I'm on my fifth year as a parent, with the added bonus of a baby brother for Boy Wonder. And, after the kids are in bed, I go to the midnight party at the local bookstore, because it's the last book and the last release party. Being at home instead of in Chicago, I get my very own reserved copy (placed on hold back in February) by 12:45, go home, and read until 3AM, whereupon Action Hero wakes up, sneezes, and calls, "Mama? Mama? Maaaamaaa...." and settles happily against my shoulder when I lift him out of his crib.

The last ten years have provided plenty of magic, in Harry's world and in my world; I'm sure that plenty more is waiting. And, although I don't need a series of books to remind me of that, I won't stop reading, these books or any books.

And, although I don't think that my own boys will ever have to defeat a basilisk, clobber a mountain troll, or track down and destroy the divided soul of a dark wizard, I can't wait to introduce them to Harry.

My turn: Get some new (*%&$*&(%$ friends

Carrie Friedman needs to get some new friends and acquaintances, and perhaps switch eye doctors and take a different yoga class too. Seriously. In what social sphere is it acceptable to, while at a party, place your hands on the belly of an acquaintance, UNDER HER SHIRT, and ask personal questions about whether or not she plans to reproduce? Or to not discipline a four-year-old who whacks someone in the face? Or respond to "I am very proud of my recent work accomplishment!" with "You'll never be happy until you have kids!" (Then again, I don't go to a lot of parties. Maybe if I did, evil spirits would possess me somehow and I'd start spouting horribly intrusive questions. Like a fountain. But probably not.)

I know that hyperbole has long been a hallmark of journalism, particularly the personal essay form of it. And I know that when you're writing a persuasive piece, everyone who has ever done you wrong, on any topic possibly related to that piece, will get a mention. And, of course, if you're writing a piece that involves taking a stance on some aspect of motherhood, every single self-centered mother you've ever come across is put front and center, making it easy to trot out the "All Mothers are Blithering Idiots, Unable to Focus on Anything but Their Own Precious Spawn" stereotype.

Whoopee! Anyway. I notice that the author lives in Los Angeles, so yeah, I'm pretty sure that she lives in a different social sphere than I do. Actually, I've noticed that most Horrible Stereotypical Parents tend to live on either coast, where it seems that people really do spend hours in line waiting to get their children into exclusive preschools, agonize over buying just the right stroller and accessories, and spent thousands, if not tens of thousands, of dollars on kids' birthday parties. Me, I live in flyover country, where, for the most part, people behave...well... normally. Strollers are purchased at Target, some schools have waiting lists but not waiting LINES, and kids' birthday parties are usually fairly simple affairs held in rec rooms and backyards, with the occasional "destination" ones at Chuck E. Cheese or that tea party place (when I was growing up, birthday parties were at the roller rink).* And, oddly enough, parents are capable of holding conversations--coherent, worthwhile ones, even--on topics other than themselves and their children. We may not read as many books as we used to, but that doesn't mean that our brains have flown out the window. Surely all mothers who can converse in a pleasant, rational manner cannot be concentrated in the Midwest?

This may be just the "Midwestern nice" talking, but you couldn't pay me to say some of the things that Friedman relates as being said to her. If someone doesn't have kids, I'm not going to ask them why they don't, or if and when they're going to. Sure, it's none of my business. More importantly, however, I don't care. Unlike the people this author knows, I don't really think that much about other people's reproductive plans, or lack thereof. I am too frackin' busy...working, playing, being a new homeowner, and, yes, parenting.

Which, although it is very noisy and involves far more bodily fluids than I would have ever imagined possible, is wonderful, and I do think that I am the happier for it. However, I think most grownups are smart enough to know what they want out of life, and whether or not that involves being a parent.** My personal views are thus: people who want kids should be able to have them, easily and in the manner of their choosing. People who don't want kids should be able to NOT have them without being asked why they aren't pregnant yet. And people who feel that their way is the One True Path to Happiness would be granted the good manners to shut up.

And people who have to contend with strangers groping them would be granted the ability to say, "Man. I have GOT to start hanging out with a different crowd."


*I realize that money is no doubt a factor in this; if I rubbed elbows with the well-monied denizens of my city, I'm sure I'd know some people who rent ten jumping castles for Suzie's birthday party.

**The rest of the grownups can be viewed on daytime talk shows, regaling the audience with Tales of Raging Dysfunction.